A Carol of Three Spirits
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Sherlock is about to get a lesson in life...Christmas Carol style. Post Series 3. Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

**Merry Christmas, everyone! Oh, and A Christmas Carol and Sherlock Holmes belong to Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle/BBC respectively. I'm only borrowing them.**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes sat in his leather armchair at 221B Baker Street, trying and failing to turn off his emotions. Usually, it was no trouble; they were always on sleep mode. But now, he could not escape the overwhelming ache deep in the pit of his stomach. It felt like he was suffocating.<p>

But it was all for the best. It had to be. It was the only way to save Molly. It didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell.

Sherlock hadn't moved from his position since he had gotten back from St. Bart's Hospital three hours ago. And the pain had not stopped once.

_Sherlock came to a stop outside of the morgue, readying himself for what he was about to do. This was going to be the most painful thing he had ever done. He just had to block everything out until it was through. He took a breath to steady himself and then pushed open the doors and stepped inside._

_Doctor Molly Hooper slid one of the drawers closed, looking up as Sherlock entered. "Sherlock! Hi!" She smiled at him. "On a case?"_

"_Sort of," said Sherlock brusquely. "I need three kidneys. One from a male, late thirties; two from females, early twenties and mid forties."_

"_You came here for body parts?" asked Molly, heading to the other room to fulfill his order._

_Sherlock allowed a confused frown to come onto his face. "Why else would I come here?"_

_Molly faltered for a brief moment before moving on into the room. "So, how're John and Mary? Haven't seen them in a while now."_

_Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh. "You don't have to fill these silences, Molly." He moved to the doorway to watch her._

_Molly had frozen with her back to him, but she quickly resumed going through the storage for the organs. "Just trying to have a little friendly conversation." Her voice had grown quiet._

"_Why?" asked Sherlock, forcing a look of disdain onto his face._

_Molly turned her face towards him, frowning. She appeared confused by his sudden change in behavior. "Because that's what friends do, Sherlock. They talk, ask each other how they're doing and what's been going on in their lives."_

"_Sounds tedious," muttered Sherlock with a shrug._

"_So, you don't care how your friends are doing?" asked Molly with a frustrated sigh as she turned back to pulling the kidneys out._

Here it goes, _Sherlock thought. _Point of no return.

"_Depends on the friend," muttered Sherlock in a bored tone._

_Molly froze completely before turning to look at him. "Meaning me. You don't care how __**I'm**__ doing."_

_Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion at her. "Why would I? You're my pathologist."_

"_I thought I was your friend," said Molly, turning fully towards him. She hesitated a moment before plowing on. "You said so yourself that I mattered."_

"_It was a thank you," Sherlock explained. "Nothing more."_

_Molly's jaw dropped as angry tears filled her eyes. "So…I mean nothing…is that it?"_

_Sherlock gave a humorless smile. "Hmm. You are smarter than I give you credit for."_

_Molly's face twisted in rage, and she immediately raised her hand and brought it across his face with a smack. She raised it again for another slap. Each one hurt Sherlock's heart more than his face, despite how well Molly could pack a slap._

_Molly spun around and grabbed the three kidneys in their bags that she had pulled out. She turned back around and flung them at Sherlock's chest, not bothering to make sure he had caught them, which he hadn't._

"_Take your blood kidneys!" Molly spat at him. "They'll be the last ones you'll ever get here! Or any other parts!" She turned and stormed out of the room._

_Sherlock stood frozen in the room, listening to Molly banging through the outer doors of the morgue and out into the hallway. Giving her several minutes' head start, he then hurried out towards the nearest stairwell, abandoning the kidneys he had never needed. He barely made it through the stairwell door before his legs gave out. He clasped onto the railing next to him to avoid collapsing to the floor, taking in deep breaths as his heart began to ache in his chest._

Sherlock opened his eyes from the memory, the pain washing over him all over again.

_Why? _he demanded of himself. _Why did you do it? Why did you hurt her?_

_Because she deserves better, _Sherlock answered himself.

Even if he was able to protect her from all the criminals that would try to hurt her to get to him, she deserved so much better than him. He would never be able to give her the life she should have. He could never fully devote himself to her, putting her above all else. He couldn't work that way. To him, there was nothing more important than a case. He would only end up hurting her.

The best thing for Molly was for him to push her away once and for all. Hopefully, she would move on and find a man that could give her a happy ending. He only hoped he could be happy for her when she did.

The front door of 221 opened downstairs, and Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. He had been expecting this. Molly would have called Mary to tell her all about it, and Mary would have, of course, told her husband John all about it. This was John coming to rip Sherlock a new one. Best to just man up and take it. After all, he deserved it after what he had done to Molly.

The footsteps coming up the stairs were slow and deliberate; apparently, John was building up the tension, getting ready to aim it at his best friend. Sherlock turned his gaze towards the flat's open door as the steps reached the top of the stairwell. When the person stepped into view, though, Sherlock's jaw dropped in surprise.

"Well, Molly definitely wouldn't have called **you**," stated Sherlock.

"She didn't have to," replied Mycroft Holmes, umbrella by his side. "I'm here on orders."

"I decline," Sherlock immediately responded. He did not feel very much in the investigative mood tonight.

"I'm afraid that isn't an option," said Mycroft.

"For God's sake, Mycroft!" erupted Sherlock. "Haven't I done enough penance?"

He had been forced to take every case the British government had given him in return for his freedom after Magnussen. After Moriarty's fake return had been dealt with, Mycroft had presented this new arrangement, which would stay in effect until they determined he had repaid his debt.

Mycroft merely smiled smugly in a way that had Sherlock second-guessing himself—which he _really_ did not like.

"Not those kind of orders…_brother dear_," said Mycroft, sneering the last two words at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, making his next deduction. "Must Mummy keep checking on me? I am fine."

"Not those kind either," stated Mycroft.

Sherlock looked Mycroft up and down before turning his head away and closing his eyes. "I thought you hated freelance." He opened his eyes to look back over at his brother.

Sherlock froze as he gave a startled jump, finding Mycroft in his face. Mycroft was leaning over him, his hands on the arms of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock stared in shock; he hadn't even heard his brother move.

"Listen closely, brother dear," said Mycroft in a low voice. "You are headed down a dangerous path, a path that we cannot afford you to go down. I have been sent here to stop you."

Sherlock frowned, opening his mouth to speak. "What are you—"

Mycroft's hand came up in front of Sherlock's face, his palm facing him and his expression stern. "You will allow me to speak without interruptions, understand?"

Sherlock was frozen in indecision and confusion. There was something about Mycroft that wasn't quite right. Something was wrong.

"By now, I'm certain you have guessed that I am not your actual brother," said Mycroft. "I only took on his form because he is the one person in this world that you look up to."

Sherlock scoffed. "Look up to—"

Mycroft snapped his fingers in the detective's face, effectively shutting him up. The ominous presence Mycroft was exuding in this moment had a strange effect, one that rendered Sherlock incapable of contradicting him.

"I believe I said no interruptions," Mycroft practically growled out.

Sherlock's jaw snapped shut despite himself.

Mycroft leaned his arm once again upon the armrest. "Yes, look up to. Ever since you were a child, you have admired Mycroft's intellect, wanting to be like him, wanting to be better than him."

Sherlock's frown deepened. _What the hell is going on?_

"It only seemed right that he be the one to turn you around," Mycroft went on. "You have recently made a very grave mistake, a mistake that will affect each and every person you care about."

Sherlock looked closely into Mycroft's eyes, trying to deduce what was going on. _This can't be real…_

"No, Sherlock, I am not a figment of your mind palace," Mycroft told him, "nor am I a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep or ingestion of narcotics or chemicals." He smiled sweetly. "Questions?"

Finally given permission to speak, Sherlock latched onto the only thing he could think of. "What mistake?"

Mycroft's smile deepened, as though pleased with the question. "Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's frown dropped into a blank look of shock. His mind had been so thrown through a loop in the past five minutes that the whole incident with Molly had been completely driven to the back of his mind. Those two words had brought it all back, grating at his heart like sandpaper.

"You have decided to cut her out of your life, severing one of the last ties you have to the world and your humanity," said Mycroft. "Soon, you will have no friends left to keep you on the straight and narrow, and we all know what happens then."

Sherlock did indeed know: drugs, obsessive crime-solving, desperate attempts at fighting away the boredom.

"You have chosen to subconsciously follow in big brother's footsteps," Mycroft went on. "The problem is, you were never meant to be big brother." He finally stood up out of Sherlock's face. "You were meant to be Sherlock Holmes." He straightened his suit as he walked towards the door. "So to that effect, you will be visited by three spirits." He stooped to grab his umbrella from John's chair as he went. "Hopefully, they can turn you around."

Mycroft stopped at the door and turned back, giving Sherlock a hard look. "I pray you heed their warning." And with that, he turned and headed down the stairs.

Sherlock sat in stunned silence for a moment before he jumped to his feet and sped to the window, only to find Mycroft's car had already pulled away. He immediately pulled out his phone, skipping the text option and going straight to the source.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Mycroft answered coolly.

"Just what was the meaning of all that?" Sherlock demanded.

"All what?" asked Mycroft.

"Don't play dumb with me, Mycroft," Sherlock spat.

"I don't need to when you're doing a perfectly good job of it on your own," said Mycroft.

"Your little intervention!" Sherlock told him.

"Sherlock, I can honestly say this time that I have no idea what you're talking about," said Mycroft calmly.

"Did you or did you not just visit my flat, spouting nonsense about Molly and spirits and my humanity?" Sherlock demanded, wanting an answer once and for all.

There was a momentary silence on the other line.

Mycroft gave a tired sigh. "Back on the sauce yet again, are we?"

With that answer, Sherlock had his: Mycroft had not just been here. It was all Sherlock's mind palace playing at his guilt.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock bit off. "You know I'm not. I must just be tired."

"Do I need to send John over?" asked Mycroft in a bored tone.

"No, I'm fine," said Sherlock. "Goodbye."

"Get some sleep," Mycroft told him as he hung up.

Sherlock tossed his phone into his armchair, placing his hands in a prayer position in front of his mouth. He glanced all over the flat, looking for any evidence that _someone_ had been there: a moved throw pillow, a shifted groove in the rug, a shoeprint in the dust on the floor. But there was nothing. And yet, Sherlock had the distinct impression that someone had been there all the same.

Sherlock glanced down at his steepled hands to find them shaking.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sherlock pulled himself irritably from the cab, tossing his money up front to the cabbie. He trudged towards New Scotland Yard, intent on giving Lestrade as hard of a time as he could. The inspector had not left him alone for two hours. Every time Sherlock turned, his phone would be alerting him to a text from him. It seemed the only way to be left alone to wallow in his despair was to get it over with.

Sherlock marched through the main office, entering a smaller one at the back. "What do you want?"

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade looked up from his seat behind his desk. "Finally. I was about to come get you myself."

"Save it," Sherlock practically spat. "What was so important? I was busy."

"You were supposed to clear your schedule," said Lestrade. "I believe you were told I was coming."

"Skip this nonsense," Sherlock bit off. "What's the case?"

Lestrade stared at him, narrowing his eyes. "Still don't get it, huh? Very well." He shrugged. "The case." He stood from his seat. "This case is a rather stubborn one."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock impatiently.

Lestrade leaned his hands on the desk, looking the detective square in the eye. "You."

A loud slam met Sherlock's ears, and he turned to see that the door and all the blinds on the windows around the office were now shut, cutting them off from the rest of the Yard.

Sherlock frowned at the inspector. "What's the meaning of this?"

Lestrade smirked, straightening up and circling around the desk. "I'm not your friend, you know."

Sherlock's frown deepened as he watched Lestrade closely.

"I'm the first spirit," said Lestrade with a smile.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in realization.

"…_you will be visited by three spirits…"_

"I'm the Ghost of Love Past," said Lestrade.

Sherlock watched him blankly for a moment before laughing loudly. "You and Mycroft are in on this together, aren't you? He roped you into this whole Dickens-themed intervention. This has got to be the most pathetic thing he's ever done."

Lestrade gave no response except to walk closer to him. He gave Sherlock a smile. "We don't have a lot of time; things to do, people to see. So, I'm just gonna have to…" he paused and gave a chuckle, "pardon the pun—give you the crash course."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Lestrade raised a hand and gave Sherlock's chest a firm shove. Sherlock gasped as he found himself propelled backwards through the window. He flailed his arms about to catch himself, but he was already falling towards the pavement several stories below. As the ground rushed up to meet him, he slammed his eyes closed to brace himself.

Nothing.

Sherlock waited for several moments before easing his eyes open. He opened them further as he took in his surroundings.

He stood in the bedroom of what appeared to be a young boy, judging from the books and toys scattered haphazardly around the room. Daylight streamed in through the window, illuminating the room as he began to analyze it.

The mess and general untidiness of the room…

_Younger sibling_

The stacks of books and notes…

_Above-average intelligence_

A children's chemistry set on the desk…

_Interested in science_

Spy books and detective novels…

_Into mysteries; a puzzle solver_

Violin and music stand in the corner—

Sherlock froze as he gazed around the room once more, taking in all the trinkets and deductions he had already made. _I know this place…_

He raced to the door, ripping it open and finding Lestrade standing there with his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Yeah," said Lestrade. "You're home."

"What is this?" Sherlock demanded.

"Exactly what it looks like," said Lestrade. He turned and headed down the hall.

Sherlock glanced back into his childhood bedroom before marching after Lestrade. He tore down the stairs, coming to a halt at the foot of it behind Lestrade.

"Will you just answer my question for once?" Sherlock told him.

"Oh, 'cause you always answer everyone else's questions," Lestrade pointed out.

"You—" snarled Sherlock.

Lestrade lifted his hand and pointed into the room they were now standing in. Sherlock followed his gaze and felt his jaw drop in surprise.

"William, be careful!"

"I am, Mummy!"

"Don't set fire to my rug again!"

Sherlock watched as his mother—at least thirty years younger than he remembered—strolled past them towards the dining table, where a young curly-headed boy sat. The boy's pale blue eyes roved over the table as he went about his little experiment.

"Tha' wasn' me, Mummy," the five-year-old complained. "It was Mycroff!"

"Stop blaming everything on your brother, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Mrs. Holmes told him sternly.

Young Sherlock looked guiltily up at his mother. "Yes, Mummy."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he turned to Lestrade. "How are you doing this?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You know, I'm getting really tired of that question."

"How—"

"I told you: I'm the Ghost of Love Past," said Lestrade. "How do you think I'm doing it?"

"You drugged me," Sherlock accused.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Lestrade brushed off.

The door to the front yard opened, and a twelve-year-old boy with auburn hair and wearing a preparatory school uniform walked in.

"Mcyroff!" exclaimed the younger Sherlock, jumping down from his seat at the table and launching himself at the older boy.

Mycroft chuckled as he enveloped his little brother in a hug. "Hello, Sherlock. How was your day?"

"I made a frog expode!" Young Sherlock practically giggled.

Mycroft laughed. "I'm sure Mummy loved that." He glanced over at the table. "What are you working on now?"

Young Sherlock's face lit up. "I'm mixing hygen per… pro…"

"Hydrogen peroxide," Mycroft supplied gently.

"Yeah, that wif soap!" continued Young Sherlock. He lifted up a children's science book. "It says it makes foam!"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, but you'll need some water and yeast as well. Mummy?"

Mrs. Holmes was already returning from the kitchen with the items. "Here you are. And don't forget your glasses." She placed a pair of safety glasses on Sherlock's face.

Mycroft placed his own on and then helped Sherlock mix everything together. Before long, the plastic bottle was exploding with green foam as it poured onto the table.

"Cool!" exclaimed Young Sherlock.

"We did it!" cheered Mrs. Holmes as Mycroft gave his brother a pat on the back.

From the doorway, the adult Sherlock watched them, a fond smile starting to show on his face. He turned his head as his father walked into the room, a red Irish setter following close behind him.

"Ooh, what am I missing?" asked Mr. Holmes, laughing at the sight in front of him.

"Redbeard!" exclaimed Young Sherlock, kneeling down and holding his arms out.

Redbeard rushed over to him, licking at his face as he pet him. Mycroft knelt next to him, arm around his brother as they pet the dog.

"Aw…" sighed Lestrade. "It's so heartwarming."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was a child. All children are heartwarming. That's what family does to you."

"Ah, but your parents and your brother weren't the only ones that cared, were they?" said Lestrade.

The spirit turned towards the front door, opening it and heading outside. Sherlock gazed back at himself and his family before following. Lestrade stood at the road, the door of a black cab open.

"Hop in," Lestrade told him.

Sherlock frowned warily at him before complying. Once he was bundled inside, he glanced up to see himself and John Watson sitting across from him. The other Sherlock was fiddling with his phone as John—with his old cane, Sherlock noticed—sat glancing every so often at him.

The other Sherlock lowered his phone. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?" asked John.

"Crime scene," answered the other Sherlock. "Next?"

"Who are you?" asked John. "What do you do?"

_I know what day this is, _Sherlock realized as he watched them.

"What do you think?" asked the other Sherlock.

John hesitated, speaking slowly. "I'd say private detective…"

"But?" said the other Sherlock.

"…but the police don't go to private detectives," said John.

"I'm a _consulting _detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth—which is always—they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

The other Sherlock threw him a look. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" asked John.

"I didn't know; I saw," said the other Sherlock. "Your haircut, the way you…"

Sherlock zoned his own voice out as the other Sherlock went into his long-winded explanation of his deduction of John Watson. After all, he knew all of this. Instead, he watched John's face as he was given his first taste of Sherlock Holmes.

He already knew that John had never been put off by Sherlock's personality—annoyed, maybe, but never put off—but he watched with amazement as John's face changed in growing fascination with each clue that Sherlock pointed out.

"There you go," finished the other Sherlock. "You see—you were right."

"_I _was right?" John asked. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs," said the other Sherlock.

Sherlock watched as John sat in stunned silence for a moment.

"That…was amazing," said John.

Sherlock watched his own face fill with shock at the positive reaction.

"Do you think so?" asked the other Sherlock.

"Of course it was," said John. "It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off!'"

John breathed out a laugh, and Sherlock smiled along with him, watching as the first foundations of their friendship began to form.

"That's it?"

Sherlock turned his head to see Lestrade sitting in the front seat next to the driver.

"That's all it takes to get on your good side?" asked Lestrade. "A compliment? Blimey, if only more people knew."

"That's not **all** it takes," grumbled Sherlock irritably.

"You're right," said Lestrade. "It's not." He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.

Sherlock suddenly found himself in a dark classroom. Before he could work out where he was, he heard hurried footsteps approaching. The door next to him burst open, and John rushed in, coming to a stop in front of the window. John's eyes filled with horror as he gazed through it. He glanced around the room quickly before turning back to the window.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled.

Sherlock stepped up next to John, gazing through the window to see himself and the serial killer cabbie in the building across the way.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock…" John breathed out helplessly. He narrowed his eyes as the other Sherlock held up a pill to the light. "What are you…"

The other Sherlock lowered the pill in front of him. The cabbie began inching his own pill towards his mouth.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," muttered John.

The other Sherlock began raising his arm towards his mouth.

"No—" grunted John as he pulled his pistol out. He watched as the pills drew nearer to the men's mouths. He raised the pistol, taking aim as he waited. "Come on, Sherlock. Don't do this."

As the pills reached their lips, John pulled the trigger, shooting the cabbie through the chest. As he lowered the gun, he quickly moved to hide next to the window as the other Sherlock quickly moved to the other window to see who had shot the man. John tucked the gun back into his jacket and left the room.

"Some friend you've got there," said Lestrade.

Sherlock nodded slowly, watching John disappear down the hall. "The best."

Lestrade frowned. "You know, I don't get you. If you get such good rewards from these friendships and such, why do you insist on pushing them all away?"

Sherlock turned his gaze to the spirit, giving him a morose look. "Because it isn't all rewards."

The room darkened around them as the smell of chlorine surrounded them. Soft lighting sprung up, revealing that they were standing at the edge of a pool.

"What…" came John's voice.

Sherlock's head turned to see John standing by the changing cubicles, wearing a heavy winter coat. He had just opened the coat to reveal the bomb strapped to him.

"…would you like me…to make him say…next?" finished John.

Sherlock glanced the other way to see himself looking around the pool as he stepped closer.

"Gottle o' geer…" John recited from his earpiece. "Gottle o' geer…Gottle o' geer—"

"Stop it," said the other Sherlock.

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." John cringed as he hesitated. "I can stop John Watson, too." He glanced down at the sniper's laser point on his chest. "Stop his heart."

The room darkened again before lightening once more. They were now standing in a bright, exquisite sitting room. The other Sherlock stood by a fireplace while a man pointed a gun at him. John and Irene Adler were kneeling across the room, two men holding guns to their heads as well.

"Mr. Archer, at the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson," said the man at the fireplace.

"What?" exclaimed John.

"I don't have the code," said the other Sherlock.

"One," said the man as John was pushed towards the floor, gun held at his head.

"I don't know the code."

"Two."

"She didn't tell me. I don't know it!"

"I'm prepared to believe you any second now," said the man.

The scene changed once again. This time, they were on a rooftop on a sunny day.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."

Sherlock turned to see himself holding Jim Moriarty by his collar at the edge of the roof.

"Your friends will die if you don't," said Moriarty.

The other Sherlock's eyes widened. "John."

"Not just John. _Everyone_."

"Mrs. Hudson…"

"_Everyone_."

"Lestrade…"

"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now."

The other Sherlock pulled Moriarty back upwards.

Moriarty stared into his face. "Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die…_unless_—"

"—unless I kill myself…complete your story."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "Since when did you become such a pessimist?"

"I'm not pessimistic," Sherlock argued back. "I'm realistic."

"Realistic?" said Lestrade. "Everybody dies, so why bother? When did you learn that lesson?"

"The day Redbeard died," Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth.

"But surely you don't wanna go through life completely alone, do you?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock paused for a moment. "If that's what it takes."

"And what about your friends? Don't they want to enjoy your company before they can't anymore?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock, everyone dies," said Lestrade. "That's just how it is. Don't you want to make the most of the time you do have?"

Sherlock stared down at the rooftop under his feet before looking over at Lestrade, but the spirit had disappeared.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock called.

Everything around him suddenly winked out of existence, and darkness closed in on him.

"Spirit!" Sherlock shouted, raising his hands to grope around in the darkness.

The darkness seemed to press in from all sides, nearly suffocating him.

"Get me out of here!" Sherlock yelled. He swung his arms frantically, unable to find anything. "Stop this! Let me out!"

Just as his hands finally found purchase on something, it gave way under his hands as light poured onto his face, blinding him. One face made its way through the light: Lestrade.

Sherlock latched his hands onto the front of the spirit's coat, getting into his face. "What the hell was that?!"

Lestrade frowned at him, his hands held up. "Sorry, Sherlock, the door got stuck."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in Lestrade's slightly spooked face. He turned his head to see the other officers and detectives watching him warily around the Yard's office. He glanced back to see that he had just come from Lestrade's office, whose window was whole once again.

Sherlock looked back at Lestrade, releasing him.

"Are you all right, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade quietly.

"I'm taking the night off," said Sherlock brusquely. "Don't try to contact me."

He turned and quickly pushed his way past the Yarders and out of the building, disturbed by what had just happened. He had come to the conclusion a while ago that he had not been drugged or set up whatsoever.

_So, if this isn't a trick…could it actually be real?_


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sherlock sat in his armchair, staring blindly into the kitchen. Once again, he was musing over the last few hours, trying to figure out what had happened. It was possible that his mind was simply turning on him in guilt, but this wasn't like him. Since when did his mind fight with him over his **own** decision? He'd had good reasons, after all.

Then again, if it was real…If these spirits were actually real…

Sherlock shook his head minutely to clear it, focusing once again on the more important issue at hand: could they possibly be right?

_No! Impossible!_

No matter how warm and comforting it felt to have people—friends—that cared for you, it always ended in tragedy and ruin. Someone like Sherlock couldn't afford friends, not without the enemies he created on a near daily basis. The only thing he could bring those closest to him was pain and death…and that was something he vowed never to do again. Yes, it would hurt…but he had no choice.

"Busy?"

Sherlock quickly glanced up to see John Watson in the living room doorway. "John…" He glanced quickly around the room. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, you do that a lot," chuckled John, stepping into the room and sitting across from him in his armchair. He stared at the detective a moment longer. "So, busy?"

"Yes, very," said Sherlock, hoping John would just leave before he started asking questions.

"With what?" asked John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, standing and strolling over to the dining table to pick up his violin. "A case." He turned to face the window as he plucked a few strings.

"It's not a case," said John suddenly.

Sherlock's fingers froze on the tuning pegs.

"Not really," continued John. "More of a…self-examination. One that you're having a really hard time with, apparently."

Sherlock slowly turned towards him, frowning at him in confusion. _How did he…_

John shrugged. "Hey, you said it yourself: I read people."

Sherlock thought it through for a moment, realizing he had been a bit stand-offish with him. He was never one to outright refuse John's company. He **had** been acting suspiciously.

Sherlock turned back to the window, going back to tuning the violin. He stayed silent for a few moments longer before lowering the instrument and looking out the window. "I've had a very strange day."

"Strange…" said John.

"It's hard to describe," muttered Sherlock. "I'm still not entirely sure it's real."

"Well, okay, what about it is bothering you?" asked John.

Sherlock didn't answer for a while, not really wanting to go into it. Before long though, the silence was becoming absolute torture, and he spun around to face John, gesturing wildly.

"Everyone holds sentiment in such high regard; that there's nothing better on the planet! They want you to pour your heart out to the whole world! They want you to be just as emotionally conflicted as the rest of them! But it's all a lie! Sentiment isn't the better way! Sentiment makes you blind to all else! It's what causes you to lose! And those you allowed your _superior sentiment_ to attach to will all pay for it!"

John stared at him, looking a little stunned after that outburst. "Is that what you really believe?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "What? Of course it is."

"Then why am I still your best friend?" asked John.

Sherlock froze, staring at him.

"Hmm?" continued John. "If you think that everyone you're close to gets hurt, why do you still keep me around?"

"You can take care of yourself," Sherlock waved off.

"What about Lestrade?" asked John.

"He's a cop."

"And Mary?"

"Ex-assassin."

"What about Mrs. Hudson?" asked John. "She can't take care of herself. Neither can your goddaughter. I don't see you pushing them out of your life. Why is Molly any different?"

"Because she is," Sherlock argued back. "She's…" He stopped himself short, avoiding John's eyes. "She just is."

"And that's why you cut her out of your life," muttered John.

Sherlock nodded slightly before freezing once again. His eyes snapped up to John, narrowing. "I never said anything about Molly."

John gave him a little smirk. "I know."

Sherlock watched him closely, trying to figure out how he had known that. "Molly called you?"

"Nope," John answered slowly. "You did."

Sherlock frowned, trying to remember if he had made a call to John at some point this evening. He couldn't recall having done so.

John stood from his seat. "I'm the Ghost of Love Present."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance as he rolled his eyes. "Must you all keep disguising yourselves as people I know? It's confusing."

"You know perfectly well you never listen to strangers," John answered, stepping towards him.

Sherlock placed his violin back onto the dining table. "True. Alright, where are you taking me?"

"Only one way to find out," said John, stopping next to him and gesturing to the open door. "After you."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance yet again before heading towards the door, grabbing his coat on the way there. He headed down the stairs, the spirit hot on his heels. He reached the white door on the ground floor, reaching out to pull it open.

Instead of the black front door of 221 Baker Street, he was greeted with a warm living room. A fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace as a woman Sherlock didn't recognize walked into the room.

"Greg, bring popcorn!" she called to the other room as she prepared the DVD player and telly.

"Got it," said Lestrade as he walked in with the bowl of popcorn.

As Lestrade's wife settled onto the couch, Lestrade sat next to her, placing the bowl between them to share.

Sherlock's eyes roved over the scene before turning in exasperation to the spirit. "You're trying to sell me on the wonders of domestic bliss, and this is who you choose? She's sleeping with the gardener!"

"I was trying to point out that they're still trying to work at it, even though it isn't easy," said John.

"Why?" asked Sherlock.

John just blinked at him. "Seriously?" He suddenly brought a hand up and smacked Sherlock upside the head.

"Hey!" exclaimed Sherlock as he staggered away from the surprise blow. "What are you—"

"You honestly don't see any correlation here?" said John. "Even though things are less than perfect and the odds are against them, they still love each other enough to try. And it looks like it's working."

"Well, easy for them to say," said Sherlock. "_She _doesn't have armed assassins and criminal masterminds coming after her because of it. And she's **still** cheating on him. That doesn't bode well for me."

John sighed in annoyance. "Fine. Is this better?" He snapped his fingers.

The living room around them changed into one Sherlock instantly recognized. Mary Watson sat on the floor in front of the sofa, tickling the baby girl lying on her back in front of her. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small smile as he watched his goddaughter laughing.

"Is that my little girl?" Mary laughed at the baby. "Is that my little girl?"

She dove in for another tickle, and the baby gave another squeal of laughter.

Mary shoved her hands under her daughter and lifted her from the floor towards her face. "Hi, my little Arianna! Hi!"

There was a chuckle as the real John stepped into the room. "You haven't put her down since we brought her home."

"Of course I haven't," said Mary, cradling the baby close. "I never thought I would ever have children, and now I have this little munchkin."

John sat down on the sofa, placing a cup of tea on it for Mary and taking a sip of his own. "You know, the other day, I found Sherlock teaching her about different types of ash."

"Oh, God…" Mary groaned with a chuckle.

Sherlock smiled at that.

"Her first word is going to be 'bored,' isn't it?" said Mary.

"Probably," laughed John.

Mary laughed with him. "We sure we want him as the godfather?"

John shrugged. "Well…he may be a little rough around the edges, but I'm sure he'll rise to the occasion. He always does."

"I'd feel better about Arianna going to him if he had a woman to help him out," said Mary. "As intelligent as Sherlock is, even he would have a hard time with a child."

"Oh, come on," said John. "You know how he is. I don't think I can ever picture him settling down, let alone going on a date. Hell would freeze over."

Sherlock's pride prickled at the jabs they were taking at him. True, he could see where John was coming from, and at one point he would have agreed with him, but he **was** capable of emotions; he just chose not to.

"What about Molly?" asked Mary. "You can't tell me there's nothing there."

"I thought so, too, but…" John trailed off for a moment. "All he does is manipulate her. He showed more attraction for Irene Adler than he ever did for Molly Hooper."

A knife went straight through Sherlock's heart, making it hard to breathe all of a sudden. _That's_ what everyone thought? That Sherlock _used_ Molly? While it was true that Sherlock did sometimes charm some favors out of her, he never thought that he appeared so cold-hearted…like Irene Adler. Is that why John had always thought there was something between the two of them? Because they were so bloody perfect for each other?

"I think Sherlock's just scared," Mary suddenly piped up.

Sherlock's attention zapped right over to her, intrigued.

"Sherlock?" asked John. "Scared?"

Mary held the baby close and got up to sit next to John. "He's afraid of what could happen if he indulges these feelings. Not only to Molly, but also to himself. He's always been the sociopathic consulting detective—best in the world. What happens when he lets his emotions in? Does he somehow become less than himself?"

Sherlock stared at the ex-assassin, amazed at her insight. Now that she said it out loud, it was so blindingly obvious. He had never looked into it past his initial reason of saving Molly, but pushing her away **had** also been a veiled attempt to protect himself as well.

_Am I perhaps wrong? _he wondered.

John wrapped his arm around his wife as he set his tea down, reaching out to tickle his daughter's cheek. "He doesn't know what he's missing."

"He really doesn't," said the spirit masquerading as John.

Sherlock startled, having completely forgotten that he was there.

"But I think what he needs to know is what he _isn't_ missing," said the spirit.

Sherlock frowned at him. "What?"

The spirit grabbed hold of the back of his coat and flung him towards the wall. Sherlock collided with the wall, spinning around towards the spirit and freezing. They were now standing in the sitting room of Mycroft's elaborate home.

The man in question was sitting in an armchair, a glass of brandy on the table next to him and reading a newspaper. He turned a page as he continued to read. As he finished with the last story of interest, he folded the paper and placed it on the table next to him, reached over and picked up the glass, taking a drink. When he had placed it back on the table, he placed his elbows on the armrests, steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and stared into the fire in front of him.

Sherlock turned to the spirit. "What is this? Why are we here?"

John glanced pointedly at Mycroft. "You don't see the similarity?"

Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft, watching him. "What similarity?"

John gave an annoyed sigh. "Your reputation is _exceeding_ you at this point. The gathered posture, the vacant stare, the _empty_ home…Sherlock…it's **you**."

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "No, it's not." But his voice was too quiet to hold any real confidence.

"In five years' time, it will be," said John quietly.

Sherlock stared at the lonely, despondent brother in front of him.

John stepped up closer behind him. "This is your future, Sherlock. Take a good look."

Sherlock watched Mycroft's eyes twitch downwards as a frown began to form on his face. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and scrolled down to Sherlock's name on his contact list. He stared at it for a moment before schooling his face and putting the phone away.

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock.

_Sherlock stumbled into his flat, unable to bear the pain of what he had just done to Molly. He stood clutching onto the doorframe before slumping against it. With a frown, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and scrolled down to John's name on his contact list. He stared at it for a moment before schooling his face and putting the phone away._

"Painful…isn't it?" said John.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, breathing harshly. He had **never** wanted to become **this**.

"But not as painful as this," said John, grasping his shoulders and spinning him around.

Sherlock gazed down into a new living room, one he was vaguely familiar with from the times he had used this place as a bolt hole.

Molly lay on her sofa in the living room, still wearing her work attire. Sherlock's heart clenched as he watched the pathologist cry into the sofa cushions.

"This is the pain of emotional rejection," said John quietly. "Somehow, it always seems to hurt so much worse than physical pain."

Molly clenched her fists as she gave a heart-wrenching sob, and Sherlock's fists unconsciously clenched with hers.

"Injury can be fixed, healed…" John went on. "Heartbreak…heartbreak lasts forever."

Molly opened her eyes and stared across the room with tear-stained eyes. As Sherlock watched, Molly's face slowly stilled, her eyes losing their ever-vibrant shine as they turned blank.

"No…" whispered Sherlock. "Not you, Molly…"

Molly was too decent and warm and bright of a person to become an emotionally blank canvas like Sherlock.

"Get me out of here…" muttered Sherlock. He turned to the spirit when nothing happened. "Get me out." He raised his voice as John stared resolutely at him. "Get me out!"

Sherlock charged towards the spirit, falling through his incorporeal form and slamming face-first into something hard. As he pushed himself away from it, he had the time to note that he was now in a small, dark room before he found a doorknob in front of him. He twisted it and wrenched the door open, spilling down the step to the pavement outside. Glancing around and recognizing the street, he turned back to see the door of 221 Baker Street standing open behind him.

Sherlock took another look around, grateful that the street was deserted at this late—

—_Oh, early hour, _he amended as he glanced at his watch: 2:30 a.m.

Sherlock turned and closed the door of the building before heading off down the walkway, determined to clear his head.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sherlock wandered aimlessly through London for hours, not really paying attention to where he was going. He was only aware of his mind spinning circles around itself.

"_Sherlock's just scared."_

"_I mean nothing."_

"_Everyone dies."_

"_He doesn't know what he's missing."_

"_They'll be the last ones you'll ever get here!"_

"_Why is Molly any different?"_

"_What happens when he lets his emotions in?"_

And Mary was right. Sherlock **was** scared, not only of what could happen to Molly but what would become of himself. For all of his adult life, he had shoved his emotions into a deep, dark corner of his mind palace, locking it away and throwing away the key. What would happen if he allowed Molly to open that door and let all those years of repressed emotions come flooding in? Would he even be able to handle it? Would he even be the same person?

Before he realized it, he had come to a stop outside St. Bart's Hospital. Sherlock stared at the front door, trying to keep walking along, but unable to budge. His mind was telling him to move on, but his heart was screaming at him to go inside. As a result, Sherlock stood frozen as his indecision nearly crippled him. Should he go in and wait for Molly to come into work? He knew showing up straight at Molly's flat would not end well.

Sherlock began to give in to his heart before that overwhelming fear washed over him again.

_I can't…_ he thought as he frowned down at the pavement. _I can't…_

Sherlock turned around, running into someone. "Sorry."

He glanced up to see that the figure in front of him was wearing a long black cloak with a hood concealing his face. The man looked much like the Grim Reaper. The man turned slightly away from Sherlock, raising one arm and pointing down the road with what Sherlock realized was a skeletal hand—literally.

"Ah, you must be the Ghost of Love Future," said Sherlock.

The spirit made no response; he only kept pointing down the road.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he started heading in that direction. "Not much of a talker, are you?"

Sherlock and his silent companion walked for what felt like blocks before the spirit suddenly raised his arm and pointed down an alley towards a pub. Sherlock glanced at the cloaked figure before heading towards the pub and opening the door.

As Sherlock stepped inside, he noticed that it was now open. He glanced out the window to see that it was daylight outside as well. As he made his way through the crowd, he glanced up at the TV, which was on a news station. The date displayed was June 15, 2021.

Sherlock moved through the crowd, coming to a booth in the back where John sat. Sherlock frowned at his friend, taking in his wrinkled, disheveled clothes and mussed-up hair. There were deep, dark bags under his eyes, and he appeared to be drunk.

Sherlock's eyes moved over to the person sitting at the booth with him and saw that it was Phillip Anderson sharing a drink with him. Sherlock blinked in surprise at the sight of the two of them. He couldn't think of two people less likely to go out for a drink together. Well, actually, that would be John and Sergeant Sally Donovan, but—

"Hello, all," said Donovan as she walked up to the table with Lestrade.

The two of them sat at the table as Sherlock's jaw dropped.

"What're we chatting about?" asked Lestrade.

"The bastard that let my wife die," John spat out.

The only thing that shocked Sherlock more than the news that Mary was dead was Donovan's next words.

"Ooh, Sherlock bashing," she said. "My favorite."

Sherlock's jaw dropped open even further. _He _let Mary die? Why would he do that? And "Sherlock bashing"? _John _was Sherlock bashing? John would never…What happened?

"Hey, he deserves it," John growled, pure loathing and malice radiating out of him.

Sherlock's heart ached at that. What terror could have happened that would have turned his best and most loyal friend against him like this? And as if hearing his thoughts, John responded.

"Mary gets kidnapped, I come to him for help, and what does he do?" John took on a mockingly indignant look. "'I'm busy, John.'"

"Well, he has had a hard time the past few years," said Anderson.

"That's no excuse," said Lestrade. "When a friend comes to you for help, you help."

"If you ask me, Sherlock gave up on us all a long time ago," said Donovan.

"Tell me about it," Lestrade grumbled. "He just completely stopped taking cases. You know it was his fault I got fired?"

Sherlock stared at the inspector. _Lestrade fired?_

"He also killed his landlady," Donovan added, taking a gulp of her drink.

Sherlock's heart twisted even more at the news. Mrs. Hudson had been like a second mother to him, and now she was dead?

"Putting up with his shit all the time finally got to her," said Donovan. "Her heart just couldn't take it. But if you ask me, he might as well have stabbed her himself."

John shook his head. "You were right. You were right from the very start."

Sherlock gasped as he stared at his best friend—John Watson—agreeing with Sally Donovan. He had always hated Donovan's hateful statements all those years ago.

"_One day, we'll be standing round a body, and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one that put it there."_

"Well, good riddance," said Lestrade, raising his glass.

"Good riddance," everyone echoed as they raised their own glasses.

Sherlock frowned as he turned to the spirit. "What are they talking about? What do they mean 'good riddance'?"

The spirit lifted his hand, pointing towards a door in the back of the room, which looked like the door to his flat. Sherlock walked towards it, stopping as he reached it and slowly easing it open. The first thing he spotted was a pair of feet lying on the floor of the living room. From the looks of the skin and state of decomposition, this person had been dead for at least a week.

Sherlock's eyes traveled up from the feet, taking in the legs and then the torso with growing horror. Sure enough, when his gaze reached the face, it was his own staring back at him…literally. Sherlock's own body was lying on the floor, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling of his flat.

What truly shocked Sherlock was the fact that his dead body had been lying in the flat for over a week. He knew that he had a tendency to shut himself up in his home, but his body had been in the flat for a week and no one missed him? No one came to check on him?

Sherlock's eyes moved down to his arm, where a syringe was stuck in the crook of it.

_Overdose._

From the size of the syringe, Sherlock could tell that it had been intentional. He had killed himself.

"No…" groaned Sherlock, staring in horror as he circled around his dead body. "No, why…" He looked up at the spirit in the doorway, face twisted in terror. "Why?"

The spirit raised one hand and pointed towards the coffee table. Sherlock quickly crossed to it, looking down at a newspaper dated June 2, 2021. The headline read:

"HUSBAND BEATS WIFE TO DEATH"

Sherlock quickly began reading the article.

"_Sunday morning, 39-year-old Molly Hooper-Granley was found dead in her home—"_

"NO!"

Sherlock flung himself away from the newspaper, landing on the sofa behind him.

"NO!"

The headline glared at him, filling his whole vision.

"NO, MOLLY!"

His heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach, twisting and falling as his world crumbled around him.

"No…you were supposed to be safe…"

Sherlock buried his face in his hands as tears fell down it. This was the worst feeling Sherlock had ever experienced in his entire life. It felt as though his heart was being literally torn from his chest and crushed to pieces.

"Molly…no…"

He sobbed in grief as his breaths came harshly, his throat choking with the sorrow.

"I loved you, Molly…no…"

As Sherlock stared at the headline—HUSBAND BEATS WIFE TO DEATH—the grief slowly churned into rage. He sprung up from the couch, latching onto the spirit's cloak.

"Take me back!" Sherlock shouted, shaking the spirit. "I can fix this! I can fix this! Take me back!"

In the scuffle, the spirit's hood slipped off, revealing the face underneath: Jim Moriarty.

"No…" Sherlock gasped out, frozen in place.

"Long time, no see, Sherlock," Moriarty smiled at him.

"You…" said Sherlock.

"I finally burned you," Moriarty giggled at him. His giggle morphed into a snarl. "I burned the _heart_ out of you!" He giggled manically into Sherlock's face.

"Take me back!" Sherlock yelled as Moriarty cackled insanely.

Moriarty suddenly collapsed, and Sherlock went with him, falling down onto the empty cloak and seemingly falling _through _the floor. He tumbled through space before slamming to a stop on his back. Wherever he was, it was cold, dark and silent. Sherlock raised his hands to find them obstructed by something metal a foot above him. He carefully felt around before deducing where he was.

"Help!" Sherlock shouted, banging his fists and feet against the interior of the morgue drawer. "Someone! Help!"

The confines of the drawer echoed with his punches and kicks.

"Let me out!" Sherlock yelled, the grief, fear and heartache nearly choking him. "Help!"

The ceiling of the drawer in front of him finally gave way, and Sherlock stumbled into an empty pub, falling to the floor. Sherlock took a look around, recognizing the pub he had stood in not ten minutes ago. It was the same one, but it was closed.

Sherlock took in the morning sunlight streaming in through the window before he pulled his phone out, glancing at the date and time:

August 3, 2015

8:12 a.m.

The relief that flooded through Sherlock was immense. Only a single night had passed since his talk with Molly. He was back.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Molly!"

He jumped to his feet, tearing out the pub door, not bothering to close the door behind him. It wasn't too late. He could take all of this back.

Sherlock allowed himself to delve into his mind palace as he ran, watching with a smile as Molly kicked at the locked door in his mind palace and shattered it. But surprisingly, there was no sudden flood of emotions, no crash of feelings. It felt more like a blindfold being lifted. Sometime in the past few months—possibly even years—that door had apparently sprung a leak. His emotions had crept back into him, lying in wait for him to lift his façade. And now, the blindfold was gone, and he could see.

Sherlock's face erupted in a smile as he reveled in his newfound joy, comfort, love, compassion and—yes—even fear. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel anything beyond trust and friendship; it was almost overwhelming. Almost, but not quite.

Sherlock finally reached St. Bart's Hospital, and he tore through the front door, racing through the halls and stairwells until he reached the doors of the lab. He threw them open, coming to a halt just inside.

Molly looked up from the bag she had just put down on a lab table, her coat still on and scarf still in place. She rolled her eyes and huffed in anger. "Sherlock—"

Sherlock stepped away from the doors and headed straight for her as she spoke.

"—I told you yesterday," Molly went on. "You are not welcome here anym—"

Molly was cut off as Sherlock placed his hands on either side of her face and leaned down, kissing her passionately. Molly stood in frozen shock for a moment before her hand came up onto his chest and shoved him roughly away from her.

"No!" Molly told him firmly. "You can't just waltz in here and charm your way back—"

"I'm an idiot," said Sherlock quickly.

Molly froze, frowning in confusion.

"I'm a jerk, a manipulative bastard and a fool," Sherlock went on. "I pushed you away, hoping you would move on and be safe from me. Everyone I come up against will be after those I hold close, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you." He lifted his hands and placed them on her arms.

Molly stared at him, her mouth hanging open.

"But I lost you anyway," Sherlock told her. "I was so scared of you being hurt that I didn't realize _I _was hurting you. But above all, I was terrified of what this new side of myself would do to me. I was scared of letting go."

Molly had tears in her eyes at this point.

"I don't deserve you, Molly," Sherlock told her, brushing his palm over her cheek. "I am a horrible, arrogant man that puts himself before all else."

Molly leaned her face into his hand.

"But no more," breathed Sherlock. "I'm sorry." He leaned his forehead against Molly's, his voice a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

Molly took several deep breaths as tears fell down her face, placing her hands over his on her face. "Say it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked into her eyes as a tear fell down his face.

"You need to say it," Molly whispered, clutching his hands tightly.

"I love you," Sherlock told her. "I love you so much."

Molly laughed through her tears as her hands wrapped around Sherlock's neck, and in a surprising blaze of courage, she pulled Sherlock down for a breathtaking kiss. Sherlock froze in shock at her sudden brazenness before he, too, dove into the kiss. He wrapped his arms around Molly, one at her shoulders and one at her waist.

As Sherlock pulled Molly close to his chest, he ran his tongue along Molly's lips, which she instantly parted. As their tongues tangled deliciously together, Molly's hands surged up into Sherlock's curls, tugging at them. Sherlock's hands gripped onto the back of Molly's coat, pulling her ever closer. After keeping her at arms' length for so long, he couldn't seem to get enough of her. Molly was warm and beautiful and gentle and—

_What is that taste? Strawberries?_

Sherlock had never felt so complete in his whole life. Molly was his other half—his better half—that made him whole. He had never understood that term—a better half—until this very moment. His entire world in that moment consisted of Molly and Molly alone: her smell, her touch, her taste—

The doors burst open behind Sherlock, who froze and pulled away a little from Molly.

"Thank God," he heard John say from the doorway. "Sherlock, we've been looking everywhere for you. No one's seen you since last night at Scotland Yard."

"And you weren't looking too good then," said Lestrade.

Sherlock smiled down at Molly, who also stifled her giggling. With the way the two of them were standing—Sherlock's back to the doors and Molly hidden in front of him—they hadn't yet spotted her. Even Molly's hands on Sherlock's neck were hidden by his coat's popped collar.

Sherlock subtly eased his grip away from Molly as he turned towards the two men, clearing his throat. "Something you need?"

"Oh, hi, Molly," Lestrade greeted with a nod before turning his attention back to Sherlock. "We need you to check out some evidence and a crime scene. We can't seem to figure how he did it."

"But you do have him in custody," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah," said Lestrade.

John frowned at Sherlock. "Is that lipstick?"

Sherlock quickly reached up and wiped the faint smear of Molly's lipstick from his mouth as Molly held a hand over her mouth. "What time did you arrest him?"

"Little after eight last night…" Lestrade answered, now staring between two of them as well.

Sherlock shook his sleeve back to check his watch. "Then you have another thirty-five hours and thirty minutes in which to hold him without cause. I'll be in touch this afternoon." He began to wrap his arm around Molly's waist.

"Hang on," said John. "You're procrastinating? On a case?"

"Something far more important has come up," answered Sherlock as he wrapped his arm around Molly's waist. He smiled down at her as he began leading her towards the exit. "You, Miss Hooper, are taking a sick day."

"Oh, is that so?" smiled Molly, wrapping her own arm around him.

"Mm-hmm," muttered Sherlock. "And I'm prescribing bed rest. Lots and lots of bed rest."

Molly giggled at his low, seductive tone, and Sherlock swept in for a kiss as they reached the doors and pushed them open.

"Hang on," said John.

Sherlock and Molly turned to look back at them. John and Lestrade were watching them in shock.

"You two?" asked John.

"Yes, us two," answered Sherlock, tightening his grip on Molly.

"Since when?" asked Lestrade.

"Since five minutes and twenty-three seconds ago," replied Sherlock. "Now if you'll excuse me, Molly and I have a long-overdue date."

"Huh…" muttered John, still in a daze. "Mary was right…"

"Yes, she was," said Sherlock. "And don't worry. Arianna's first word is more likely to be 'idiot' than 'bored.'"

John stared at him in shock.

Sherlock started to turn towards the doors before stopping himself. "Oh, and John?" He looked back at his friend with a smile. "Hell just froze over." He turned and walked through the doors with Molly.

"How did you know all—never mind," muttered John as the doors swung closed. "I don't want to know."

Sherlock pulled Molly closer as they hurried towards the front door of the hospital. As they got into a cab, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his pathologist.

"Your place or mine?" asked Sherlock.

"Yours is closer," replied Molly.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabbie, pulling Molly in for a kiss as they pulled away from the hospital.

When they parted for breath, Sherlock smiled at the flustered and breathless Molly in his arms.

"I love you, Molly," Sherlock told her.

"I love you, too, Sherlock," said Molly. "Whatever made you change your mind?"

Sherlock's smile morphed into a deep chuckle. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you all liked!<strong>


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